Parallels
by Pompey
Summary: Holmes brings a case to Watson and the clients prove to have certain things in common with them. Crossover w/Raffles, Amateur Cracksman. Set between "An Old Flame" and "Wrong House" in RAFFLES and before 6NAP in SH. COMPLETE . . . finally!
1. Chapter 1

For all the time I have spent working with Sherlock Holmes, I have brought to his attention only a minimal number of cases. The reverse is also true. In fact, I had never had a medical case brought to me by Holmes until an exceptionally chilly day in early 1898. That in and of itself was enough to imprint the encounter on my memory but as I would discover, an even more pressing reason would emerge. But I am committing the literary sin Holmes takes such glee in scolding me for: that of beginning a tale in the middle.

Holmes had been out most of the day -- doing what, exactly, I did not know other than it entailed him dressing in the guise of a most bohemian impoverished painter -- and dusk was beginning to spread gloomy shadows in the furthest corners of the room. Then came the clatter of two sets of footsteps on the stairs and a man with pearly grey hair and a face scored deeply by lines burst into the sitting room. He was followed closely by Holmes.

I could see at a glance that theirs was not an amiable relationship. Holmes had the stranger's shoulder in a grip tight enough to wrinkle the thick cloth of his coat and he rather shoved him further into the room. The stranger in turn gave my friend looks that were part resentment, part fear, and part desperate hopefulness.

"Stay quiet!" Holmes snapped with what appeared to be real anger. Then he turned to me. "Watson. Think carefully before you answer my next query, please. Would you be willing to offer medical aid to a man known to be a criminal when by rights you ought to be reporting him to the police?"

I involuntarily glanced at the white-haired man who now had his hands thrust into his trouser pockets. At my look, he shook his head. "Not I. A friend of mine." He appeared to be on the verge of saying more but a sharp glare from Holmes made him check himself.

"I suppose it would depend on what sort of criminal he is and how bad his condition is," I answered slowly.

"He is a thief," Holmes replied. "Scotland Yard has some interest in finding him although the real prize is not your potential patient but rather the company he keeps. Inspector MacKenzie is much interested in the latter man although I daresay Hopkins or Youghal would be equally delighted to collar the pair of them."

I looked again to the white-haired man. This time he flashed me a knowing smile and shrugged slightly. "It is for his sake I am here."

"His sake as well as your own," Holmes snapped. "But it is only fair to warn you, Watson, that your patient was wounded during certain criminal activities and the wound is such that he should be immediately linked to the crime."

"It became infected," put in the stranger. "We've treated it best we could but I'm getting beyond my limits now. I've treated him shabbily in the past but I shall not leave him in the lurch now. It is completely my fault, after all. No man ever had a better partner; I daresay he'd follow me to hell and back. Loyal simply isn't the word. Please say you'll come. He's in a bad way and if ever a chap least deserved such a fate it is he."

For all his nonchalant posturing and public school intonations there was a thread of sincerity running beneath his words. Thieves they might be and wanted men, but whatever else they were, I believed they were close friends outside the brotherhood of criminality. It was that element as well as the direness of the man's condition that prompted me to say, "Yes. I shall come."

I felt Holmes's piercing gaze upon me as I rose and collected my bag. When I turned to look at him, however, he merely nodded solemnly in acknowledgement of my decision. I wondered if he had already seen my patient and further wondered what circumstances would have precipitated such a meeting. I knew better than to ask then, however. Holmes would volunteer the information if and when he chose to do so.

TBA


	2. Chapter 2

The white-haired man led the way, followed so closely by Holmes that my friend could easily reach out a hand and collar him should the need arise. I did my best to keep up for the man we followed was clearly in excellent training despite his elderly appearance.

We wove our way through the streets until at last we found ourselves amidst the more elegant lodgings on King's Road. It was far from what I was expecting but there was no time to ask questions. Holmes suddenly charged ahead into one building that had no distinguishing features that I could see. The man who was a thief dashed after him and naturally I followed them in and up the single flight of stairs.

Holmes was already at the top and as the elderly thief approached him he suddenly pushed him back to allow me access. "Watson," said he and nodded at the door to the apartments. For whatever reason Holmes would not permit the other man to enter before I; perhaps he feared an ambush or a flight. In any event, so long as Holmes remained behind me I did not worry about turning my back to the thief and I entered.

The shades had been half-pulled against the dying winter sunlight and so I had to wait for candles to be lit before I could truly see. I was astonished by what met my eyes. The room itself was spacious and yet spartanly furnished. The furniture was was a fainting couch upon which lay the man I had come to tend, a small table and single chair, and one large mirror mounted on the wall. The rest of the room was taken up by costumes of all sorts, make-up kits, and other paraphernalia of disguise. I could not fathom the need for such things but I had more important concerns at hand.

My patient appeared around thirty, barely, and remarkably fair-haired. So blond was he, in fact, that I could barely perceive the stubble on his face through the hectic flush of fever. That, combined with the slick of perspiration on his brow gave me my first inkling as to his condition. His eyes opened sluggishly and worried me with the glazed dullness therein. Then alarm blossomed on his face and he made to sit up. "Who are you?"

Gently I pushed him back down. "My name is Dr. Watson. Your friend asked me to come." Now that I was closer I could see his hand was tightly bandaged and the fingers were swollen and red.

"My friend? You mean Ra – " He checked himself immediately and whatever name he had begun was not finished. Instead he muttered, "I didn't think he actually would. Sometimes I forget how much of his hatred of doctors was feigned."

This last statement I did not try to understand and focused my attention on the hand. The bandage had been applied well but as I unwound it I saw a portion of it was stained with pus and debris. At last I revealed the wound. It was an odd-shaped thing: a jagged crescent of swollen, infected flesh over the first knuckle and extending into the web between the first finger and thumb. There was a smaller corresponding crescent on the palm side of the web. It was not as badly infected as the larger wound but it was bad enough. My patient stayed silence as I manipulated the limb as gently as I could but he could repress a wince every now and then.

"This looks like a human bite mark," I exclaimed. "However did it happen?"

The white-haired man laughed softly but it was not a sound of mirth. "I fear, Doctor, we cannot tell you that."

"It _is_ a human bite mark. It was inflicted six days ago on Cromwell Road at approximately one in the morning by a fellow with a half-rotted bicuspid that was dislodged entirely due to the force of the bite," Holmes put in.

We turned to look at him in some astonishment. Holmes merely raised an eyebrow at the white-haired stranger. He in turn smiled wryly and shrugged, hands once more in his trouser pockets. "Peccavi."

"Yes, I thought as much," replied Holmes. "The fellow who left the impression of his teeth in your patient's hand, Watson, was quite the optimist. He has said the robbery was not a complete loss for it saved him the cost of seeing a dentist."

This last comment I did not both to acknowledge. "That may explain how the wound became infected so quickly," I agreed and scrutinized the rest of the limb. There were faint red streaks emanating from the bite that were only just heading towards the wrist. "There is the beginning of blood poisoning."

My patient sharply inhaled and immediately his partner was crouched besides me. "But just the beginnings," the older man reiterated. "Surely you needn't resort to amputation. Not yet, anyway."

I was aware of three sets of eyes watching me closely while I considered the options. "I can try treating the infection as aggressively as possible. There is no guarantee it will work. And if it spreads further we will have no choice but to amputate, possibly at the elbow rather than the wrist. It will be your arm or your life; do you understand?"

"Yes," replied the white-haired thief promptly. "It is a risk we will take."

My patient looked both incredulous and irked. "May I remind you, Ra –" Again he caught himself and huffed slightly. "May I remind you, my dear friend, that it is _my_ arm or _my_ life that is at stake?"

Far from taking offense at the snarled words, the older man merely smiled. "We have bested less likely odds, my dear timid rabbit. And think of the prize at the end should the treatment succeed."

"I am thinking of what happens should it fail," was the sullenly retort.

"I know. And were it me, I might have the same reservations. But look here, Bunny. The difference between amputation at the wrist and amputation at the elbow is not all that great, practically speaking. The difference between any amputation and remaining whole – isn't that worth at least trying for? What say you?"

There was something almost enchanting in how the man beseeched and persuaded. One could scarcely resist him. I realized I had succumbed to it already on Baker Street and was already doing so again. Indeed, I found my own confidence concerning the less drastic treatment buoyed by his words. It came as no surprise, then, when the younger man sighed as if against his will and acquiesced.

I started by cleansing the wounds and excising all the purulence I could, even grasping his wrist and squeezing towards the injuries to discourage the spread of pathogens. It must have been agonizing but the man who had been called a rabbit twice in a span of five minutes made not a word of protest. Only when I applied a sublimate solution did he make a sound through clenched teeth. Throughout the ordeal the older thief remained very close by. He handed me supplies as adeptly as any nurse. He also kept a soothing hand on his companion's shoulder, tightening his grip whenever the pain threatened to overwhelm. Finally I applied a dressing liberally treated with carbolic and allowed the younger man some badly needed rest.

Only when my patient was comfortably settled back did I feel it was time for some answers.

* * *

_Gold sovereigns to Deana and KCS for knowing right off the bat who the white-haired man is! For everyone else, there are more hints offered here as to the identities of these "gentleman thieves." _


	3. Chapter 3

"May I ask, sir, how Holmes came to find the two of you?" I asked the elder thief while I cleansed my hands.

He sighed ruefully, hands yet again in his trouser pockets. "A few years ago I had rented out this room," said he carefully. "Through unforeseen circumstances I was forced to give it up. I had hoped last night that it was still for let but temporarily unoccupied suited us well enough. And it was unoccupied until but a few hours ago when Mr. Holmes arrived."

Holmes took up the narrative. "It is an incredible coincidence but it appears we both had chosen this particular apartment to serve as a little bolt-hole in which to change disguises. The bohemian painter of this morning would no longer serve and I came here to create his alter-ego. It was simplicity itself to recognize who they were. We came to an agreement that in return for remitting the stolen goods to me, I would not turn them in and would permit them access to medical treatment. Incidentally, sir, you have yet to hold up your part of the bargain."

The white-haired man smiled. "Of course." He went to the fainting couch and, without disturbing the reposing man, reached up underneath it and produced a small tobacco pouch that clinked and clacked softly. This he delicately offered to Holmes.

Holmes thoughtfully weighed the bag, carefully turning it over in his hands. He then handed it to me and held out his hand expectantly towards the white-haired man. Far from being abashed, he gave us a grin better suited to the cat that ate the canary and flipped back his left cuff. There was a band of linen encircling his wrist but there was a large bulge against his pulse point. He extracted the object with a wince and where the linen sagged I could see the red indentation it had made in his flesh. When he placed it in Holmes's outstretched palm I saw the object was a glittering gem the size and nearly the color of a robin's egg.

"Holmes!"

"Not now, Watson, and certainly not here." My friend took the pouch from me and added the stone to its contents. The pouch went into his own pocket and Holmes favored the thief with a look that might have skewered a wild boar.

True to form, the incorrigible rogue did nothing but shrug and smile again. "Well, you can't blame a fellow for trying."

"I know. That is part of the reason why I insisted you accompany me to Baker Street. Your friend seemed too limp to cause much mischief on that end. It is a pity you tried to hold out for I see your linen is stretched out and will no longer hold your picks, and all for naught."

"Linen is easily replaced; Brazilian aquamarines of that size and quality are not. The risk was well worth it." He looked faintly mournful as he reflected upon his loss.

I, for my part, was appalled for I could now guess the contents of the tobacco pouch. Holmes might be blasé about the matter but I could not be. "Clearly this was a jewel theft but how far did it go?"

"No one else was hurt," the white-haired man said immediately. "I detest violence; it is a degradation of the art."

"An art?" I exclaimed.

"Certainly. Burglary is just as much an art as music or painting . . . or writing. Any brute can smash in a window or smash in a head and the job is finished. But an artist will apply all his skill and finesse and a truly great artist brings his own personal flare to it."

"Of course, you have chosen a field where success is itself the benchmark for success," Holmes put in. "No one would beg the services of a cricket batter who allowed a bowler to get past him, no matter how graceful or elegant his batting may be."

I was astonished at how easily my friend's words caused the elder thief to blush furiously and squirm as a boy called before the headmaster. "Well, you have me there. But there is something to be said about perseverance. Bunny and I endure in spite of all."

"For now. Burglary is a young man's game and it will not be too much longer before your years match your hair."

"Well, so too is detecting and I'd say you were about ten years ahead of me. But it is a great game. I would not have missed it for worlds, no matter how it ends."

"And what of Bunny?"

"What of him? He is my concern, thank you. Backing and filling are not among my many vices."

"What was it then on the _Uhlan_?"

"It was me they wanted, after all," was the quiet reply. "He would have drowned trying to keep up with me and it would have gone far harder for him had I stayed. The choice was made for me. _You_ know how it is."

"Yes," Holmes replied just as quietly. "I know how it is. And now, Watson, our business here is completed, at least until tomorrow when you return to check on your patient."

"Good evening then, gentleman," said the thief, amiable once again. "Don't worry, Mr. Holmes; we shan't be imposing on your hospitality much longer."

"By the by," Holmes asked blandly, half turning back, "you would not happen to have any information about the disappearance of the Black Pearl of the Borgias, would you?"

The white-haired thief chuckled softly and shook his head slightly. "You are quite the strange professional, Mr. Holmes. You have us absolutely pinned for the Cromwell job and you won't turn us in for it yet you ask me about another theft. But in answer to your question, I do not know where it is. At the moment."

"And where was it the last you knew?"

"In the hands of some Neopolitan Comora. Prior to that it had been in the possession of a member of the Sicilian Mafia. Do you know, the two organizations simply cannot bear the sight of one another?" It seemed to me the man was made far too cheerful by this thought but I was not given time to comment. "As for the whereabouts of this Neopolitan, I rather lost track of him once the aforementioned Mafioso was set upon his trail by an anonymous message containing the name and photograph of the man believed to have relieved him of his prize."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Indeed? An anonymous message? How very hazardous. I am aware of the respective reputations of the two organizations. It is safer to not meddle in their affairs if at all possible."

"I too am aware of their respective reputations. I know for a fact it is safer not to meddle in their affairs unless absolutely necessary." For an instant there was an immense sadness in his eyes. Then he blinked and it was vanished entirely. "But that is the extent of knowledge where the Borgia pearl is concerned. If you mean to take up that case I do wish you the best of luck and beg you to take precautions."

TBA

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

"Dare I ask for the details of the crime?"

Holmes had taken out the tobacco pouch and was turning it over in his hand contemplatively as the carriage rattled on. "Page three of that day's _Times_, I believe, contains an account of the matter. There was indeed minimal violence; he did not lie about that if that concerns you."

"I am relieved to hear it." I had not doubted it but hearing Holmes confirm it did lessen the few pricks my conscience had been giving me for offering aid to two criminals.

"Something else is bothering you then. I am sorry I brought you into this but it seemed the most convenient solution at the time. If you do not wish to return tomorrow I would be willing to -- "

"It is not that either," I interrupted. "I have never shirked when a patient needed me and I do not mean to start now, regardless of the law. My concern is for you."

As our cab drove past a street lamp I saw that Holmes's eyebrows had shot up in surprise. "For me?"

"Should you pursue the Borgia pearl case now that we know the Camorra _and_ the Mafia are involved. One organization alone is dangerous enough but both of them together may prove too high a price to pay for a bit of black nacre."

As our cab was once again in darkness, I only heard Holmes's soft laugh. " 'pon my word, Watson, you speak as though I mean to charge into their respective headquarters and demand they hand over the pearl. I have not yet even decided that I will pursue the case."

"But agents from the princess herself have retained you."

"They have approached me; I have not yet agreed to it. And knowing what I know now, it strikes me as such a paltry, sordid little problem hardly worth my talents (1). I have no doubt whatsoever Lucretia Venucci committed the initial crime and given her heritage it is likely a male relative or perhaps a lover is the Mafioso referred to by . . . your patient's confederate."

I marked that Holmes too seemed reluctant to give a name to the white-haired thief, assuming he knew the name and I was positive that he did. I did not know if I should be grateful for being kept ignorant or if it was an unnecessary precaution. Nor did I wish to interrupt Holmes while he was sharing his train of thought to press the issue.

"The pearl has passed from the Venucci family into the hands of a Neopolitan. Follow the movements of brother Venucci and he shall lead you to your man. Where pray is the danger in that? More importantly, where is the intrigue? Indeed, the only factor that interests me in the whole business is the unforeseen involvement of . . . the thief who was also responsible for my coming into these." He gently rattled the tobacco pouch for emphasis.

"So you do not mean to pursue it?"

"Well, we shall see. I may pass along a hint or two to the official forces instead, when I delivery these stones to Scotland Yard. I shall meet you back at Baker Street shortly."

"How much of a hint do you mean to give them?" I asked uneasily. "Surely you do not mean to betray your source."

"Kindly have a little faith, Watson," snapped Holmes impatiently. "I am not one to 'back and fill' any more than he."

* * *

While I waited for Holmes to return I dedicated myself to first locating and then reading the newspaper article in question. The former took the majority of the time and it was not until Holmes arrived back that I was finally able to sit and read.

The home in question belonged to the Hon. Reginald Faber, recently returned to England having recreated his family's fortune in Brazil. Just how this fortune was obtained was shrouded in rumor and speculation but suffice to say, it involved that country's native jewels. The night of the theft, Mr. Faber had been entertaining his brother James, who had decided to stay the night. It was James who had been disturbed by the entrance of the thieves. As he told the police, both he and his brother had indulged deeply in spirits before retiring but a toothache had prevented him from sleeping. In point of fact, Reginald Faber slept through all the excitement although there was some evidence that he had been chloroformed.

Hon. James Faber, meanwhile, surprised the two thieves in his brother's study. Both wore broad black masks over their faces but one appeared far older than the other and it was he who took the lead. At Faber's appearance they attempted to escape through the side-door they had entered from, the younger thief shoved forward by the elder. When Faber sprang upon the elder thief the younger returned and pried Faber off his partner. And to prevent any cries for aid, he clapped a hand over Faber's mouth. Faber retaliated by biting his restrainer so deeply he dislodged his half-rotted bicuspid and drew blood. The last thing he recalled before waking to pronounced nausea and headache was a heavy cotton pad reeking of chloroform pressed to his face.

While I could not condone this burglary by any means, I found myself touched by the show of loyalty between the two thieves. And I was much relieved they had chosen to subdue the Hon. James Faber by non-violent means when a harsh blow to the head could have achieved the same results.

This pacific approach, coupled with the use of chloroform and a target with a known appetite for alcohol consumption and a cache of splendid gems, struck me as vaguely familiar but I could not put my finger on why. Perhaps Holmes had investigated their previous crimes or perhaps I had read similar accounts without fully recalling them. It was but one more mystery to ponder.

TBC

* * *

(1) Somehow I get the feeling Holmes doesn't care for cases that involve jewels unless he happens upon the case through simple intrigue. He knew of but did not investigate the theft of the blue carbuncle; he didn't even become interested until it was found in the goose. Even the Mazarin Stone case had more to draw Holmes in than the simple theft: it was a royal jewel, the thief was also a murderer, and Lord Cantlemere didn't think Holmes could recover it.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning I did not have much trouble finding the apartment on King's Road without a guide. My patient was still listless and feverish and the wound had returned to its original infected state. The one bright spot in his condition was that the red streaks indicative of blood poisoning had progressed no further. This good fortune surprised me; I confess had expected to have to tell them amputation was inevitable. If we could continue to halt its spread and eventually kill off the remaining pathogens he would be fine, albeit inevitably scarred.

"There! You see, Bunny? Worth the candle once again," the elder thief exclaimed with what I thought unwarranted satisfaction. It _had_ been a risk and the young man was not out of danger yet, and he ought to be made aware of it.

I started to say as much but was halted by my patient's weary shake of his head. "No, there is no point in telling him anything when he is like this," said he, eyes on his exuberant partner. "He'll hear every word you say but pay it no mind."

This I could believe, having occasionally observed the same behavior in Sherlock Holmes. On the other hand, Holmes was more inclined to try to convince me to come 'round to his point of view rather than bask in the glow of his own sense of self-assurance. However, he did supply hot water and soap when I asked and thankfully did not hover at my shoulder like a dragonfly as I went about providing treatment.

I had to cleanse and excise the wound once again and once again my patient was admirably stoic about it. The only outward signs of his agony were his hand clenched around the edge of the pillow and his teeth sunk into his lip. I had seen far less manful reactions to less serious ailments and I said as much. He gave me a sickly smile in response.

"Thank you but -- I'm really – quite the coward," he gasped.

"Come now, Bunny, that is a compliment on your courage from a war veteran himself," interjected the white-haired thief. "To contradict it is to question his judgment. Wholly unwarranted, I should say and ungrateful to boot; the fellow is doing his best to save your hand if not your very life."

I brushed off the comment and finished applying the antiseptic solutions. Then, on an impulse, I seized the jar of honey – a remnant from breakfast if the breadcrumbs on the table were anything to go by -- added the sweetener to the dressing along with the usual colloidal silver. The silver I knew to be effective; I had heard of honey's use on purulent wounds such as these but had never given it much credence. Here, I did not think it would do any harm even if it did not do any good.

My patient looked alarmed and nervous; the other thief merely interested. "It will help," I promised with more confidence than I felt.

"Doctor?" the young man asked quietly as I rebandaged his hand.

"Yes?"

"Do you believe I will be able to recover without amputation?"

"I think it is possible but it is not yet a certain thing," I admitted, unwilling to be overly optimistic in case the worst happened. "The odds are better today than they were yesterday. We will know more in six hours or so."

"Six hours? Why so long?"

"That is how long it will take to see if the infection is definitively slowing or returning." The news was not what he wanted to hear but he accepted it, as well as the glass of water and mild painkiller I offered.

I turned to the white-haired man to give further instructions as to treatment in between my visits. I confess, I worried that his indomitable optimism would prevent him from taking them seriously. I did not doubt his fondness for his partner nor his desire to see him recovered – only his understanding of the sort of work that still lay ahead. Fortunately, the man paid me the strictest attention and even recited my instructions back to me almost verbatim.

"I have an excellent memory," remarked he with amusement when I blinked in surprise.

"So I see."

"By the by . . . has Mr. Holmes decided if he will investigate the Borgia pearl theft?"

"I'm not at liberty to say." Besides the fact that not even Holmes himself had made up his mind, I doubted the wisdom of saying anything about the case to a man involved but especially to a self-proclaimed criminal.

"Of course," replied he, smiling as if he could read my thoughts and was amused by them. "But, in the event that he does, I wonder if he would be willing to accept a little outside information from a man of my reputation."

I hesitated. "I suppose he would. I'd be willing to pass on the message to him if you are willing to speak to me."

And now it was the thief's turn to hesitate. "Without giving away too much, he may want to keep an eye on one Guiseppe Il Zaccaro," he said eventually. "The surname is not his by birthright; it is a Neopolitan commentary on the conditions of his legitimacy (1)."

"Guiseppe Il Zaccaro," I repeated in the hopes of imprinting the unfamiliar Italian syllables to my memory. "I shall tell him. Why, though, are you so willing to assist in the recovery of the pearl you stole?"

He laughed softly. "Now, now, Doctor. Be fair. I merely appropriated what was already stolen. As for why . . . " He trailed off and his demeanor went stony cold. "I have my reasons. Among them, it would be to my advantage to have Il Zaccaro arrested for possession of the pearl rather than I."

"Well, I can understand that. But why frame Il Zaccaro in the first place? Why not simply leave the pearl in Venucci's possession?"

"As I said before," he smiled thinly, "I have my reasons. Now, I believe I have proved my ability to adequately tend to Bunny for the next six hours. Is there anything else I should be aware of concerning his care?"

"No, that is all for now." I still did not understand his strange and seemingly senseless desire to frame the Neopolitan Camoriso, especially when it put himself and his partner in crime at such risk. But as much as I wished to question him further I sensed it safer to remain quiet. Perhaps Holmes might be able to throw some light on the matter. If not, I trusted I would be no worse off in ignorance than I would be in enlightenment.

(1) "Il Zaccaro" means "the boy" in the Neopolitan dialect. And "Beppo" is a common nickname for Guiseppe in Italy. (On a personal note, Guiseppe was also my grandfather's name but he went by the Anglicanized "Joe.")


	6. Chapter 6

Unfortunately for my curiosity Holmes was still absent from Baker Street. Fortunately Holmes's indices were still very much in residence so I had the opportunity to indulge in another line of inquiry. My information was scanty – nothing but the nickname "Bunny" and another name that began with "Ra", perhaps "Rabbit?" – and I knew I could spend hours in fruitless pursuit of their identities. It was a long shot, I knew, but I had the time to waste. I took down the "B" volume.

It was as I had feared. There was no entry for Bunny, not even a cross reference. With a sigh, I closed the volume, replaced it, and debated my next move. I could start from the very beginning of volume A and work my way through each entry until I found the men I sought, or I could hope that "Ra" was the start of a surname and not another nickname. I chose the latter.

To my dismay, Holmes's collection of R's might not be as illustrious as his M's but it was nearly as large. I read through to Stephen Raeford before my eyes at last protested at the strain I was putting upon them. I set aside the volume for a moment.

It was that moment that Holmes returned, eyes glowing with excitement and his tattered artist disguise smudged with suspicious russet stains. "Holmes, is that blo – "

"No time, Watson!" he barked. "We haven't a moment to lose. Quickly, now! Get your coat and revolver and get into the cab I have waiting; I shall be with you in a minute." So saying, he all but dove into his room, nearly crushing his fingers in his haste to close the door.

It could not have been much more than sixty seconds before he reappeared respectably clothed even if his collar was still undone and his boots were badly laced. The former he fastened in the cab as we lurched along through the slush.

"What a blind beetle I've been!" exclaimed Holmes as he went about repairing his appearance as best he could given the circumstances. "It wasn't the paintings that were being smuggled, Watson, it was the paint. The paint! I should have realized from the first – "

"Holmes, what on earth are you talking about?"

He blinked in surprise. "Why, the smuggling case of course. Ah, I see now. Terribly sorry, Watson, I quite forgot I haven't spoken a word of it to you. Allow me to catch you up to the past few days' events."

Thus I enjoyed one of the rare times Holmes confided in me the details of a case _before_ its conclusion rather than after. Unfortunately, once I understood the stakes and the depth of the corruption, it did little to appease my sensibilities and much to disturb them.

My fears were not entirely unfounded, as it turned out, and the better part of six hours passed before matters were resolved to Scotland Yard's satisfaction. Holmes had our cab bring me to the very doors of his flat on King's Road with the understanding that I would return to Baker Street as soon as my house call was completed.

The white-haired thief was in fine form, cheerfully greeting me and even going so far as to offer me a cup of tea which I declined. I could not fathom his irrepressible devil-may-care demeanor until I had a look at my patient Bunny.

His hair was plastered against his skull by perspiration and he showed all the energy and brilliancy of a flannel face cloth but the infection was abating. The redness was receding, the swelling half of what it had been, and the purulence minimal.

"You look surprised," the young man called Bunny observed with an expression of askance. "Did you not expect the treatments to work?"

"Not to this extent," I admitted, gently manipulating the limb. "I had not expected progress like this for another twenty-four hours at least."

"Well, that is Bunny for you," put in his companion, "always surprising you because you do not expect him to. Oh come now, dear chap, that is a compliment!" he added at the wry face my patient pulled.

Rather than argue, Bunny changed the subject as I changed his bandaging. "I was surprised to hear that Mr. Holmes is still alive. That last story you wrote a few years ago was so awfully convincing."

"Yes, I imagine it was." Likable though they were, I was not about to tell two strangers – and criminals at that! – precisely why my account of the Reichenbach incident had been so convincing.

"But it obviously it did not happen the way you wrote it," persisted he. "Are you not going to explain to the public what really happened?"

Frankly I wondered that myself. For our safety, Holmes had forbidden me to publish anything further concerning his methods, our cases, or Baker Street. It simply was not safe, given the increased popularity my writings and the personal, even private, details I had unwittingly disclosed. Holmes had given his permission to resume publications upon his retirement. By my reckoning, that meant the next tale of Sherlock Holmes would reach the public in two or three decades at the earliest.

"We shall see what the future holds," I answered at last.

"Do you mean you will not have anything more published?"

The young thief sounded so much like a disappointed child I could not help but smile. But before I could respond, the elder thief laughed softly.

"Why not ceasing pestering the doctor and go back to writing yourself, Bunny?"

"You write?" I exclaimed.

"He's a remarkably literary thing," Bunny's companion confided before the man had a chance to agree or demur. "You know, he's secretly the author of that poem about the Emperor's pearl that came out a couple years back, when the King of the Cannibal Islands insulted the Queen."

I had to cast my mind back but I suddenly recalled the poem in question. "Of course! I remember it now. That poem explained the whole matter to me more clearly than a dozen newspapers. But it's a pity you didn't wait a trifle longer to publish it; you could have added a stanza or two about the attempted theft of it." I had meant it kindly but my words were taken wrong. The young man went a mottled crimson color and stammered and squirmed with embarrassment.

"Now there's a thought, Bunny. You might think of writing up our exploits," the elder thief cut in with a speculative grin. "I daresay they might make interesting reading for some."

My own foray into the world of literature led me to believe such tales would be popular but at what cost? They were criminals, likable though they may be, and to publicize their crimes would certainly bring down the law upon them. "Wouldn't that be a trifle dangerous for you?" I asked hesitantly.

"Not if one uses a literary agent," retorted the older man with a wink. "Eh, Doctor?"

*****

Upon returning to Baker Street, I nodded distractedly at Holmes's greeting and ignored the supper Mrs. Hudson had left out. Instead, I made for the discarded "R" volume.

I knew the details of the recent theft of the Faber jewels had sounded familiar. Now, with mention of the Emperor's pearl and the attempt to abscond with it, following Holmes's question about the _Uhlan_, the ship on which the theft had been attempted, suspicion burned in my mind. Peripherally I wondered if this was the sort of insightful madness that gripped Holmes when all the pieces of a case come together and the solution becomes plain.

I flipped through the volume forcefully, only half-hearing Holmes's mild remonstration for the well-being of the pages. At last I found the entry I sought. Then I looked up from the words, feeling slightly wild.

"Holmes, can it be true? The man I have been treating is Harry 'Bunny' Manders?"

My friend set down his pipe. "Yes, Watson. It is true."

"And his white-haired companion . . . do you mean to tell me that all this time we have been consorting with Arthur James Ra – "

"Do not be ridiculous, Watson," Holmes interrupted severely. "A.J. Raffles drowned two years ago in the Mediterranean Sea, accordingly to the official reports. Besides, you have no way of proving it. By the time you return there tomorrow they shall be long gone."

"Gone? But why?"

"It is safer for them this way. The less interaction they have with us, the better. Besides, they have established identities separate from 'Raffles and Manders' and to stay away for too long is to draw suspicion upon themselves."

"I would think stealing the Faber jewels would have done that."

At that, Holmes smiled. "Indeed. And that is why it should come as no surprise to me if our paths do cross again some time."

But for once, Holmes was in error. We never did meet the pair of gentleman thieves again in either a professional or social capacity. There were rumors that they were eventually caught up in the Boer War but no proof of that ever came to light.

On the other hand, a few months later in June there came to my attention a short story featuring the names of two men that were strikingly familiar indeed. Two thieves, gentlemen and amateur cracksmen, who preferred chloroform to violence and favored capers that necessitated nerve above all else. The purported author was not known to me but upon making a few inquiries I found the man was not as much a stranger as I had thought. It was but one more reason for to shake one's head in amazement and reflect upon the strange parallels that life offers.


End file.
